The Cape Cod Bicycle War. Billy Kahora

man who stalked the bank floors like a secretary bird, imagining the day he would have his own branch to run. He had once been the most senior accountant at the largest Eagle branch in Kenya, and had been demoted to the smaller Harambee branch only after a series of frauds occurred under his watch. As a result, though he was here representing the bank’s management, he was partly sympathetic to the boy in front of him. He had been in the same position, albeit at a managerial level.

      Next to Ocuotho, at the far-right corner of the desk, was a bald-headed man, Mr Malasi, from Head Office Personnel. He was wearing designer non-prescription spectacles. Kandle thought he recognised him from somewhere. At the far left, representing the union and, in theory, Kandle, was the shop steward, Mr Kimani, a young-looking, lanky, forty-year-old man with soft Somali hair and long, thin hands that he cracked and flexed continually. He also happened to be Kandle’s immediate boss. He was the man behind the yearlong deals in the department. On Kimani’s right was a younger man, the deputy shop steward at the branch, Mr Koigi, a youth with a rotund belly and hips that belied his industry. He had had an accident as a child, and was given to tilting his head to the right like a small bird at the most unlikely moments. Like Kandle, he had worked at the bank for a year, and was considered a rising star. He was also Kandle’s drinking buddy.

      There was a seat right in front of the desk for Kandle. Just as he was lowering himself into it, sirens blared, and everyone in the room turned to watch the presidential motorcade sweep past, out on the street. The man, done for the day, heading home to the State House. Kandle grinned, and remembered shaking the President’s hand once when he was in primary school, as part of the National Primary School Milk Project promotion. There was an old photo of Kandle drinking from a small packet of milk while the President beamed at him. The image had been circulated nationwide, and even now people stopped Kandle on the street, mistaking him for the Blueband Boy, another kid who had been a perpetual favorite in 1980s TV ads.

      When the noise died down, Guka turned to him.

      ‘Ah, Mr Karoki. Kandle Kabogo Karoki. After keeping us waiting you have finally allowed us the pleasure of your company. I am sure you know everybody here, apart from Mr Malasi, from Personnel.’ Guka stretched his arm towards the bald-headed man in the non-prescription spectacles. His back was highly arched, as usual; his eyes were those of an old tribal elder who brooked no nonsense from errant boys. Kandle suddenly remembered who the bald-headed man was. He was the recruiter who had endorsed him when he had first applied for his job.

      Guka turned to the shop steward. ‘Mr Kimani, this committee was convened to review Mr Karoki’s conduct, and to make a decision – sorry, a recommendation – to Head Office Personnel.’ He gave Kandle a long, meaningful look. ‘This is not a complex matter. Mr Karoki decided he was no longer interested in working for Eagle, and stopped coming to work. Before me, I have his attendance record, which has of course deteriorated over the last two months. Prior to this, Mr Karoki was an exemplary employee. We have tried, since this trend began, to find out what was wrong, but Mr Karoki has not been forthcoming. What can anyone say? I am here to run this branch office, and eventually, as the Americans say, something has to give.’ He paused, cleared his throat, and looked out the window with self-importance. Then he turned back to Kandle.

      ‘The British, whom I worked for when I joined the bank, would have said Queen and Country come first. Eagle next. At that time, when I joined, I was a messenger. The only African employee at Eagle. I worked for a branch manager named Mr Purkiss, a former DC who made me proud and taught me the meaning of duty. I have been here for forty years. I turn sixty next year. It seems that young men no longer know what they are doing. When I was your age, Mr Karoki, no one my age would have called me Mister. I was Malasi’s age, thirty-six, before anyone gave me a chance to work in Foreign Exchange. I was already a man, a father of three children. Now look at you. You could have been in my seat, God forbid, at forty. It is a pity that I did not notice you before this, to straighten you out.’ He paused again. ‘But before we hear from you, let us hear from the branch accountant, Mr Ocuotho.’

      By now everyone from the branch was trying to hide a smile. Mr Malasi had a slight frown on his face.

      ‘Thank you, Mr Guka,’ Ocuotho said, clearing the chuckle from his throat. He spoke briskly.

      ‘Mr Karoki is a good worker, or was a good worker. But after he received his June salary, which was heavily supplemented by the furniture loan he took, he never came back. We received a letter from a Dr Koinange, saying that Mr Karoki needed a week off for stress-related reasons. After that week, he did not appear at work again. This is the first time I am seeing him.’

      Mr Malasi shifted in his seat at the mention of Dr Koinange. Kandle was looking at his boss, Kimani, who wore a grave expression. Feeling Kandle’s eyes on him, he gave the most imperceptible of winks.

      ‘What was the exact date of this doctor’s letter?’ Guka asked. Everyone waited as Ocuotho referred to his diary.

      ‘Friday, 24 June.’

      ‘Today is Thursday, 15 August. So not counting his sick and annual leave, Mr Karoki has been away for two weeks with no probable reason. And after eight weeks, he doesn’t seem to have solved his problem.’ Mr Malasi coughed, but Guka ignored him. The manager stretched and stroked his belly. ‘Let us hear from the shop steward, Mr Kimani.’

      Kimani straightened up. ‘I have worked with Kandle for a year,’ he said, ‘and in all honesty have seen few such hardworking boys of his age. A few weeks ago he failed to appear at work, as Mr Ocuotho has mentioned. He called in later and said he wasn’t feeling very well, and that something had happened to his mother. He said he would be sending a doctor’s letter later in the day. I didn’t think much of it. People fall sick. Kandle had never missed a day of work before that. I told him to get it to the accountant, give the department a copy, and keep one for himself. Then, of course, he went on leave. When he didn’t come back as scheduled – I was to go on leave after him – I got worried and tried to get in touch. When we spoke, he told me his problems weren’t done and that he claimed to have talked to Personnel. I told him to make sure that he kept copies of his letters.’

      Mr Guka was getting agitated. It was obvious he was not aware of any contact with Personnel, with whom he’d already had problems. After he had accused the legendary Hendrix of insubordination, Personnel had decided otherwise and transferred the man to Merchant Services, which was a promotion. Hendrix was now Eagle’s main broker. Guka had been branch manager for eight years; his old colleagues were now executive managers or had moved on to senior positions at other companies.

      Guka loosened his tie. He remembered that he was due to retire at the end of the year. He wished he were on the golf course, or out on his tea farm, and reminded himself that he needed to talk to Kimani later, to find out whether there was any chance that the currency deals would start up again. It had been two months since he had received his customary Ksh 20,000 a week. He needed to complete the house he was building in Limuru. This was not going the way he had expected.

      ‘I am not aware of any such documents or communication,’ Mr Malasi offered.

      ‘But as you all know, we are a large department. It’s certainly possible we overlooked something. I will check up on that.’

      Guka cleared his throat. ‘I think the facts are clear –’

      Malasi interrupted him. ‘I think we should hear from Mr Karoki before we decide what the facts are.’ Head Office Personnel had paid out millions of shillings to ex-employees for wrongful dismissal, and Malasi was starting to wish he had stayed away from this one and sent someone else. It was looking like one of those litigious affairs. For one, the boy seemed too calm, almost sleepy. And what was the large sheaf of documents he had in his lap? The reference to one of Nairobi’s most prominent psychiatrists, Dr Koinange, had introduced a whole new element.

      Dr Koinange happened to be on Eagle Bank’s board of directors. The belligerent hubris of one old manager would be, in the face of such odds, ridiculous to indulge. Even if they managed to dismiss the boy, Malasi decided he would pass on word that Mr Guka should be quietly retired. As the oldest manager at Eagle, he was well past his sell-by date. Malasi decided he would recommend Ocuotho as a possible